


What Makes Up Brock Rumlow

by RigbysLesbianMun



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Arson, Blood and Violence, Brock Rumlow's Past, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Domestic Violence, Fire, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Minor Character Death, Murder, POV First Person, Past, Regret, Violence, before hydra, no relationships atm - Freeform, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RigbysLesbianMun/pseuds/RigbysLesbianMun
Summary: I am not a good man; let’s make that clear first and foremost. I’ve done absolutely downright awful things and the fucked up bit is I’d do it all over again if I had a choice. Are there things I regret? Hell yeah, I mean everyone has at least one regret, no matter how small or stupid it may seem, but I’m not here to talk about others, this right here is going to be all about me. It obviously won’t all be fucking rainbows and shit, but I don’t expect any pity either, in the long run this is just me reliving some of the times I don’t necessarily enjoy because damn, I need them out of my head. Read, don’t read, I don’t really give a flying fuck, but here I go anyways.





	What Makes Up Brock Rumlow

There were times where the world seems to still; time is lost when I’m not focused enough, where my brain fills in holes I had left blank on purpose for the memories that lay in such dark abysses don’t deserve to be remembered and yet, flashes of names and colors blur in front of my vision, warping the reality around me into something akin to a feverish nightmare. How does one shake a nightmare while awake anyways? Over thirty plus years and I still cannot give an answer other than try and block it out, focus on something else, but even this, it’s not full proof and some nights you’ll have to suffer alone trying to rewire yourself into what you need to be.

I needed to be strong.

And that’s what I became over and over again. A follower and a leader depending on the circumstances, a snake and a loyal dog, I changed to whoever I needed to be to survive because if life sucks and we’re all gonna die anyways, why make it anything less than thrilling. I learned this lesson at the ripe strapping age of ten when I learned age didn’t matter if you were born from a monster anyways.

 

I’d been watching my mother all evening light candles around our darkened house, an electrical storm ragging on outside with more lightning than rain happening. I remember sitting by the window of our kitchen watching the sky light up and the zig zag of the energy reflected off the drops of water gathered on the glass, mother always ever so quietly mumbling to herself with every candle lit. She must have lit over twenty in just the kitchen alone, hand trembling from a broken wrist bandaged so loosely it did nothing to help alleviate her pain. Her face looked even darker with the shadows dancing across it as she turned to walk towards me with a smile that brought me more worry than easiness, running her good hand over top my head, the smile widened before telling me I should go to bed before father got home. It was only down the hallway that I walked, barely in my shadowy room a minute before the rushed sound of wind followed by cursing echoed throughout the house and all at once I turned to look out my doorway and down the hall into the living room to see my father slam the door shut.

Now I’m unsure exactly what was said, like my ears were stuffed with cotton while I watched my mother come out of the kitchen and help my father take off his wet jacket. They shared words, her flinching as he glared and I didn’t even wince when his fist found her cheek or when she fell onto the ground with a cry. I stared on like I was watching a cartoon rather than real life when he didn’t stop, bending to straddle my mother and rained his fists down over and over again where even from down the hall I could see blood seep into the carpet around her face and see spittle fly from his lips. The flickers of the candles casting long shadows as my gaze soon feel to them and how they danced until there was near silence, the wind blowing along the house all there was to listen to as I blinked out of my blank state to look back up. Eyes, nearly black in the lighting, stared intensely at me from above my mother where his chest heaved and his fists were still clenched tightly, crimson glistening across his knuckles.

At that moment, fear quickly welled up inside of me as I stared back before immediately turning back into my room and slamming my door shut, scrambling for the lock while heavy footsteps came running down the short hallway. The knob hit my face when it was roughly shoved open, crying out in shock more than pain, I fell back on my ass before looking up at my father’s crazy grin as he came at me. Scrambling backwards when his bloody hands reached out for me, I couldn’t do anything when he grabbed me by a leg and yanked me forward, a broken scream leaving me when his hand then found my throat and was thrown across my room with ease. Hitting my closet door with a gasp, air being knocked out of me, I crashed to the floor on my knees trying to catch my breath while looking around for some form of shield like my mother had never done. My dresser was beside me, not even a foot away with what must have been ten candles on it, and before I could fully think of what I was doing I picked up one of the glass jars of wax and chucked it at my father.

It hit his forearm and bounced to the floor without any real damage and dread filled me when he began laughing, picking up the candle and walking directly in front of me as he turned the candle upside down and let the cooling wax fall on me. It wasn’t painful, the flame had been extinguished when I had thrown it, but it was meant to be degrading as he talked down to me, familiar words of distain falling from his twisted lips before he dropped the candle and gripped my short hair into a fist. Being forced to look up at him, watching the way his face twitched as he spoke, my hand reached out for the candle he carelessly dropped and once it was within my grasp…

I smacked it against his cheek and when he recoiled, I aimed for his throat that loosened his grip on me before once more to his nose which gave me enough time to pull away and gave a swift kick right in between the bastard’s legs. Crumbling to his knees, I felt almost what could have been pleasure at watching his face twist up in pain, taking the candle once again in a tight fist I got as close as possible and repeatedly hit it into my father’s temple until he crumpled onto the floor. I was exhausted when he finally did; panting heavily and just standing over him as I caught my breath, hand actually going numb with how hard I had been holding the candle. Blinking away the rush, I dropped said candle back onto the ground and slowly made my way back out into the hall and walked over to where my mother laid completely unresponsive on the living room floor. Her chest wasn’t moving anymore, her swollen eyes were actually still open around the bloody bruised mess of skin, but there were no tears upon realizing this, only a long kept rage erupting.

Scream after scream left my throat as I knocked off frames and utensils along with the candles from counter-tops and desks, I threw books and knocked over chairs without a care in the world as red tinged my vision. I barely noticed the small flame enlightening the carpet, it actually causing me to stop my destructive outlet for a moment in order to watch it slowly grow in size from where it had fallen and not gone out. A dangerous idea sparked in my mind as I went and found mothers lighter, the one with a long neck that was easier on her fingers, and walked myself back into my room where my father was still laid out unmoving, though groaning. Bending down near him I flicked the lighter on and didn’t even hesitate as I began lighting the clothes he was wearing on fire, starting with the collar of his shirt and continued moving down until his sleeves and length of his pants were also starting a nice fire, smoke swirling up as the flames hadn’t yet licked his skin. Standing up I knocked over all the candles in my room before lighting my bedspread on fire and then opening my closet and also igniting the clothes hung up in there.

My father’s screams were heard while I was lighting the master bed aflame just next door and there was no doubt my lips quirked a smirk at the unfamiliar sound. Silently, I enjoyed it as I walked back down the hallway to my mother, glancing into my room to see a mass of fire rolling around on the floor causing me to stare for just a moment before I forced myself to continue walking. Once to my mother, I lit her clothes on fire too, a bit more rushed now that smoke was beginning to circulate through the house, moving to the curtains next before finishing by turning on all the spots on the stove and placing dishrags and paper towels all over the even surface. Looking around at the quickly spreading damage, I dropped the lighter and went out the front door, closing it securely behind me as I looked up into the night sky only to realize that in that seemingly brief time, it had stopped raining and I could see the moon peeking out behind clouds almost like a wink down towards me. Walking down the driveway, I sat carelessly by the mailbox at the end of the road, leaning against the cool damp wood where I was able to see the flames grow through the living room window with something close to peace of mind.

In my files, it states the fire was suspicious in nature; however there was too much uncertainty about the case, too many previous domestic violence calls to the house, too much bone damage to my mother’s face. My lawyer was surprisingly decent, much too young and so called traumatized to even speak up in court he said when really he told me saving me from juvie would be his big break to a real law firm. I didn’t necessarily care to be honest; I barely listened to him or the court during it all, and it was probably the quietest I’ve ever been when I think back on it. I was ‘too young’ and much ‘too scared’ to have been someone capable of murder, that my parents had a physical fight and when my drunkard father came into my room candles were knocked over and as the fire began I left the house out of fear and could nothing more than watch and wait. They got it half right at least, but damn if I was going to correct any of it for them. In the end, I was placed into foster care with a certain list of ‘warnings’ and the need of therapy until I was fifteen. That is why my second part begins, with a girl named Rachel Leighton who really should have kept her mouth shut.


End file.
